


Nineteen Floors, Seven Assassins, Two Idiots, and a Rat from Sumatra

by frostian



Series: Road to Ithaca [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF John, By Moffat & Co., Gen, Jossed, M/M, Pre-Slash, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 15:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1190247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostian/pseuds/frostian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaned forward on his chair. “What if it is the rat? What if the curator was killed because of the rat?”</p><p>“So, there was nothing smuggled inside the rat,” John concluded. “What happened to the rat that made it worth murder?”</p><p>“That is an interesting question, indeed.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Wendell's Final Donation to Science

John glared at the package in his hands, willing it to sprout a label so he could identify it as foodstuff. Not that labels automatically helped with sorting out what was what when one lived in 221B. No, when one had Sherlock Holmes for a flatmate, it could be a terrible mistake to make scrambled eggs from a full carton, because the mad git could have injected the eggs with bacterium to further his studies.

When John was told about this little endeavour, he revealed his plan to cheerfully throttle the lunatic. Unfortunately, John had been unable to carry out his threat, as he could not lift his head up from the toilet. Realizing his life was in genuine danger, Sherlock had set up Mrs. Hudson as an intermediary for the two days in which his friend toiled under food poisoning.

John woefully eyed the large carton of fried rice sitting on the kitchen table. And the small bowl of vegetables next to it. He wanted to make fried rice for dinner by adding ingredients to the leftovers, and specifically went to the market to get peas and carrots. 

John glared at the meat-like substance in his hands. 

_Let it be pork, let it be pork_ , John prayed fervently. _It’d be nice to have pork-fried rice. And it’s wrapped in cling film. Could be pork, I might have used some in…_

“That’s Mr. Wendell you’re holding,” Sherlock blithely informed John as he entered the kitchen.

John was too quick for Sherlock and managed to nail his roommate right on his skinny chest with Mr. Wendell’s final donation to science. 

As John made dinner, he seriously considered the idea that Sherlock was slowly turning him into a vegetarian. It wasn’t noticeable at first, but as the months marched on, John had begun to notice the distinct lack of meat in his and Sherlock’s diet. At first he attributed the decline to his friend’s psychotic need to collect human remains like some demented cat in throes of courtship. A practice that doubled in intensity after their recent clusterfuck of a visit to Dewer's Hollow.

It also didn’t help John’s appetite when, upon opening the fridge, he was greeted by a jar of human kidneys floating in Sherlock’s homemade preservatives. In fact, John couldn’t remember if he had sweetbread or shepherd’s pie since he’d moved into Baker Street. 

Not that Sherlock dictated what he ate when they were out, but then the last time John ate with someone who wasn’t Sherlock was Janice, and that was depressing number of months ago.

 _He’s turning me into a monk_ , John concluded. _I am not eating meat and not having sex. Yes, I am now officially a monk._

He eyed Sherlock who sat across from him at the kitchen table. As an act of contrition, the detective had cleared the table of his chemistry kits, including whatever the hell was slowly leaking green, jelly-like fluid. 

And yet, John couldn’t find it in his heart to get angry. Not when Sherlock had gained weight; actually slept three to six hours at any given twenty-four hour span. In fact, as John critically eyed his friend, he could see muscle tone under the shirt.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to look up from his plate. “I can feel your gaze. In fact, I think one of Mycroft’s satellites noticed it, too.”

John sat back and took a deep breath. What he was about to offer felt something like a marriage proposal and made him a bit uncomfortable. But, ever the soldier, John ploughed through. 

“I want to train you,” John said.

Sherlock frowned. “Train me? You mean for medical emergencies?”

“No, to prevent them,” John answered.

Sherlock sat back on his chair and studied his friend. He saw fear and worry, but also more than usual level of eagerness and excitement. “I don’t understand.”

“I know you’ve been trained in different forms of fighting, and that’s very good,” John said. “But there is one I know you’ve never seen.”

“And what is that?” Sherlock asked, genuinely curious.

“Killing.”

Sherlock felt his mind still for an exquisite second, as John’s answer rendered him speechless. “Excuse me?’ he finally managed to croak out.

“Killing,” John repeated patiently. “Most … almost all fighting styles available to the public are forms of combat: self defense and like. What I’m offering is not that, Sherlock. It’s quite simply killing another human being.”

“Is that wise? To train a socio…”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” John interrupted harshly. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have offered.”

“Why are you saying this?”

The genuine confusion in Sherlock’s tone gentled John’s temper. 

“There will come a time when I’m not with you, Sherlock, for one reason or another. And the truth of the matter is there are a lot of people who wouldn’t mind seeing you in a coffin.

“What I’m offering is very simple. For you to kill before the bastard can.”

“But all fighting styles…”

“No, they teach you to fight, which could possibly result in death,” John countered. “What I’m offering is not a fighting technique, but ways to effectively kill someone without incurring lethal wounds.”

“And you trust me with this knowledge?”

“I trust you with my life. And I want to trust you with yours.” John took a sip of his water. “I talked to Greg, and he confirmed my suspicions. The people we’ve been helping the Yard hunt down – they’re a lot worse than what the Yarders were arresting when he was a DS. In fact, Greg tells me he’s never seen so many criminals own firearms as he did in the last two years.

“I think we both know who is to blame for that.”

Sherlock nodded and grimly said, “Yes, I have noticed.”

“So, either our run of luck continues or, one day, you will be forced to kill someone. It’s not going to be easy, but once the muscle memory sets in place – your body will recognize what needs to be done before your brain does, as incredible as that may sound. 

“My methods will be brutal but efficient, since I’m not looking to choreograph a fight sequence for an action film.”

“Is that why you’ve been so adamant about my diet?”

John grinned and shook his head. “Not the only reason. Your love/hate relationship with food isn’t something I can get a read on just by watching you. I can make educated guesses and that’s all they are. 

“But since your eating habits have improved, I can see you’ve gained muscle weight. Hey, it must be nice to be model thin, especially if you insist on wearing those ridiculous clothes, but the truth of the matter is you needed a lot more muscle to do what I want you to do.”

“You’re not exactly Hercules, my friend.”

“Don’t need Schwarzeneggar’s pecs, Sherlock, to cut open femoral arteries.” John looked thoughtful. “In fact, speed is the key and not brute muscle. Strength is necessary but it’s not a weight-lifting contest. It’s hard to explain. I have to demonstrate.”

Sherlock took a deep breath and pondered what John was offering. On one hand, it was exciting. He had always known John was more than a RAMC doctor, and suspected his friend was a frontline medic for number of years. He also had deduced that John had been thoroughly trained, albeit unofficially, by someone who had great deal of combat experience. That person had to have been a specialist, and a talented one. 

But the other side of that coin was knowledge. Once it was in his head, Sherlock wasn’t so sure he could delete it completely.

 _What to do? What to do?_ Sherlock pondered before realizing he was being an idiot. It was John who was offering, and if Sherlock couldn’t trust John, then whom could he trust?

“When do we start?” he asked, tense with anticipation.


	2. The Beauty Pill

Lestrade couldn’t help it: he stared unblinkingly at Sherlock and John. And he knew he wasn’t the only one. In fact, every person in the room was agog as they watched the Consulting Detective study the body crucified onto the floor with what looked like tools gleaned from the worktable next to it.

Donovan’s gaze kept bouncing between the two men, both of whom were wearing workout clothes and trainers. She then gave yet another puzzled look at her boss and shook her head before leaving the room to marshal up the forensics personnel.

John gave a grin at Lestrade and shrugged. The DI grinned back. John’s ratty shirt and sweatpants were familiar enough. Lestrade had much of the same in his wardrobe. But Sherlock’s black head-to-toe ensemble wasn’t, and if Lestrade had to guess the outfit probably cost more than what he made in two weeks.

“Poison,” Sherlock announced. “John?”

John kneeled down to study the victim’s face. He looked almost sad. “Christ, she must have been beautiful.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

John blushed a little and continued, “The hemorrhaging of the eyes, the bluish tinge of the nail beds all indicate asphyxiation. And though her hands and feet have been nailed to the floor, there are … what looks to be skin samples under the fingernails. But it’s what’s in her mouth that supports Sherlock’s conclusion.”

“And what’s that?” Lestrade asked.

John opened the victim’s mouth and pointed to the tongue, which had deep gouges that were still crimson. “She did that to herself. And the tongue is swollen. The autopsy will probably reveal her airway is completely swollen shut. I’m thinking anaphylaxis. Check if she had any known allergies. Anything this bad? Odds are she was well aware of it.”

Lestrade nodded. “I’ll get Donovan on her medical profile.”

It wasn’t until John stood up that Lestrade realized Sherlock was missing. “Damn it,” he hissed.

“Easy,” John cautioned. “He’s in the next room.”

As if confirming John’s guess, Sherlock cried out, “In here. John!”

The two men went to the office that was both spacious and cluttered. The restoration specialist had one of the larger corner offices, complete with beautiful windows. But the room looked small because it was crammed with books and knickknacks that fought for domination over every available surface, including the floors.

Sherlock was studying a wooden box that had once contained cigars. Lestrade took a deep sniff and frowned when something hit his nose besides tobacco.

“Bloody hell,” John whispered when he saw the content.

Lestrade took a peek. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a giant rat,” Sherlock explained, “specifically from Sumatra.”

“Someone mailed our victim a bloody rat from Indonesia?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock’s grin was bordering on obscene in its glee. “Yes, someone did. And this case just got very, very interesting.”

John felt a long day and night ahead, with little to no food. Much to his dismay, the doctor discovered he was completely correct in his fears.

* * *

John’s mood had not been improved by the Stradivarius’ brilliant imitation of fingernails-down-the-chalkboard at bloody o’clock in the morning. So, it was with a gruff ‘yeah’ that John agreed to accompany Sherlock to NSY after breakfast. 

And from what John could see, Greg wasn’t doing much better.

“We lost the rat,” Lestrade snarled the moment they entered his office.

John froze in the posture of pulling out a chair. “I beg your pardon?"

“Someone managed to steal the bloody rat right out of the forensic truck while it was on-site yesterday!” Lestrade growled, aggravation plainly visible around the tired eyes and jawline.

Sherlock buried his head in his hands and moaned. It looked dramatic, but both men knew he was actually suffering from pain. 

“Do you know who?” John asked. “Did Anderson managed to gather any evidence from the rat before it was stolen?”

“Bloody fucking none,” Lestrade answered. 

“So, I’m guessing the rat was important piece of evidence,” John said. He gave a cautious glance at his friend. “Sherlock?”

“I hate to theorize without facts, but Dr. Silva might have very well been murdered for that rat,” Sherlock promptly declared while giving his chair a petulant kick of frustration. 

“Please tell me you took some evidence without permission, like you always do,” Lestrade asked in a begging tone.

Sherlock threw John an irked glance. “Unfortunately, I had developed a more palatable behavior of late, and did not, in fact, steal any evidence yesterday.”

John looked both sheepish and defiant at Sherlock’s pronouncement. “It had to have been delivered, yeah? So there must be some tracking information?”

“A courier picked it up at King's College somewhere; they're not sure exactly what office. To make this situation even funnier, the bloody thing was paid with a fraudulent credit card. What we do know is that the package was picked up last Tuesday and delivered the same day.

“Here’s the thing – Dr. Silva didn’t take it anywhere. That box hadn’t left her office for nearly week. And she didn’t refrigerate it either as far as we can tell.”

“A week?” John asked. He looked at Sherlock. “Shouldn’t it have been in a worse shape then? I thought the damn thing was overnighted because it was fresh.”

Sherlock looked at John with bright eyes. “But I detected no chemical scents. In fact, the box itself was wood, which would reveal any tampering, especially with chemicals. And the courier box it came in did not contain any trace of preservatives or coolants.”

“Wait a minute,” Lestrade looked nervously at both. “Are we talking some biochemical warfare thing?”

John shook his head. “No, not that I know of, at least. Chemical weapons will damage organic tissue. The smell alone would give it away.”

“So, are we talking about…” Lestrade floundered for a moment. “I have no idea what we’re talking about.”

“There is a rat,” Sherlock said, “specifically, a giant rat from Sumatra, which was mailed to Dr. Silva. A week later Dr. Silva is dead. The rat and the wooden box it came in are both missing.”

“Where the bloody hell did the rat come from?” John asked suddenly. “It couldn’t have just hopped on an airplane from Indonesia, and then stole a credit card to pay for its delivery. Someone had to have imported it, right?”

“Who in their right mind would want to import rats?” Lestrade asked, befuddled.

“Two businesses in London, in fact, though importing non-indigenous rodent species would land them with heavy fines.” Sherlock said, with a proud grin aimed at John. “However, both businesses have shuttered in the last two months. So, any paperwork would be nonexistent by now.”

“Who owned them?” Lestrade asked. “Maybe I could go make a call, see if we could dig up something, anything.”

“A Mrs. Stalworth who passed away as did the other candidate - Mr. Fleming…”

“Wait a minute, Thomas Fleming?” Lestrade asked.

“Yyyyessss…” Sherlock drawled out.

“That bastard’s dead, and nobody bothered to tell me?” Lestrade thumped his desk with both hands. “Next time I see either of you in a pub – the drink’s on me.”

“Who was he?” John asked.

“A cold-hearted bastard who deserved to rot in prison,” Lestrade answered. “But who got away because someone messed up.”

“Intentionally or accidentally?” Sherlock asked, curious.

“We don’t know,” Lestrade answered. “But I know the bastard killed those girls. I just know it.”

“What did he do?”

“Helped O’Neil run a prostitution ring out of Liverpool: nasty business. Girls went missing, and two bodies were found though we never did manage to identify them. But nothing led to O’Neil. Then we got lucky and convinced a witness to identify Fleming as an enforcer. The bastard never saw trial, though. The witness’ statement went missing and so did the witness a week before trial.”

“Why is he in London?” John asked.

“Enforcers don’t last long in the business,” Sherlock explained. “O’Neil couldn’t pick him up again, not after the police found him dirty. Too dangerous. So, he must have paid off Fleming.”

“And the bastard came here and opened up a pet store?” John looked incredulous.

“If it was Thomas Fleming then drugs were definitely involved in some way,” Lestrade said. 

“Drugs…” Sherlock tipped his head sideways. “Of course.”

John frowned. “They can’t feed the rats cocaine or heroin, it’ll kill them and you can’t reconstitute the drugs from the corpses.”

“No, but think,” Sherlock said in a low voice, “it’s very, very clever. Imagine you are working for either an airline or shipping firm. It’s not unusual to find dead animals, especially rodents, in the cargo hold. Do you examine them for drugs, Lestrade? No, you…”

“Just throw them out,” Lestrade finished Sherlock’s sentence. “Oh, Jesus, you collect organic debris and then burn them.”

“No containment, no thirty-day observation period,” Sherlock said. “Put them in a sac and toss it into a furnace.”

“But that still doesn’t make sense,” John said. “I know something about heroin smuggling. You’re going to need a deluge of rats, even that size, to make any kind of profit. It also doesn’t explain why the thing was preserved so well.”

Sherlock’s eyes gleamed as he took in John’s protestations. “So, it wasn’t the usual drugs, then. It was something singular; something that could not be processed here, in England.”

“Which means highly illegal and probably weaponized,” John finished with a small sigh.

Lestrade rubbed his face with the heels of his hands. “Any chance you could call that omnipotent sibling of yours and see if there’s something we Yarders should know about? Like maybe depleted uranium?’

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “The most you could do with uranium that size would be to make interesting bullets.”

“Sherlock,” Greg pleaded, “Just … call, all right?”

Sherlock heaved a chest-rattling sigh but gave a nod before swanning out of Lestrade’s office.

“If he doesn’t, I will,” John reassured the DI before following his friend.

* * *

That evening John found himself making good on his promise, as Sherlock was too busy sulking to bother calling Mycroft. And John didn’t mind it either. It was best to head off any sibling argument by simply cutting Sherlock out of the conversation.

Otherwise, the entire discussion could be derailed by Mycroft’s latest food obsession and Sherlock’s sudden buying frenzy of mammalian livers.

“John, how can I help you?”

John sighed in relief when he realized Mycroft was in a benevolent mood. It was amazing how quickly he had been able to gauge the Holmes’ moods just by their voice. 

“Is there anything we should be aware of, Mycroft?” John began nebulously. “Because we’ve stumbled on a case that might have impact in your department.”

“Really?” Mycroft sounded honestly intrigued. “I thought you were investigating a murder at the Museum.”

“Yeah, we are, and a crucial piece of evidence has gone missing,” John supplied. “We think it could contain something … biological? Maybe weaponized? We’re not sure, to be honest. But Sherlock and I were wondering if it was something that you’ve been made aware of.”

“No, nothing like that has come across my desk,” Mycroft said. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “At least in London.”

John believed him and made a mental note not to take a holiday _anywhere_ outside of London proper. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

“Is it serious?”

“No, I don’t think so. Sherlock’s not so sure, though. And that is enough to give me sleepless nights.”

“I will upgrade the security on Sherlock until you are convinced otherwise.”

“Thank you,” John said.

“No, thank you, John. It makes my life a great deal easier to know when Sherlock will be in danger, which seems to be on days that end in ‘y’.”

John burst out laughing. “Yeah, it does, pretty much. Good night.”

“What did The Queen reveal? Any nasty secrets?” Sherlock grumbled from his usual position on the sofa.

“No, nothing, but he had been made aware. So, be ready for SRR to serve you at Angelo’s and shadow you around until this case is over.”

Sherlock gave an inelegant snort. “Please, clods, the lot of them.”

“Oi, they are good lads so watch your tongue,” John scolded gently.

Sherlock’s gaze suddenly turned piercing. “Do you know them? Personally?”

“How did you think I got my gun when I first came back to London? From the local Gun Fairy?”

Sherlock grinned. “One of the lads owed you a favor?”

“His uncle was a patient of mine during Iraq 1.0. Got caught in a blast when one of the pipelines blew up on his patrol. It was like liquid fire rained down on them.

“The bastard was smart, dragged his men and himself under the Humvee until it was safe for them to get out. Had some bad burns though, on his legs mainly. By the time they landed in my tent, all of them were in serious pain and well on their way to shock. It took round the clock care to make sure they were well enough to be evacuated.”

“Because they were burn victims?”

John nodded. “All injuries are tricky, Sherlock, but burns? They’re about as nasty as I’ve ever seen.”

“Worse than your shoulder?”

“The initial damage was bad, and the artery was nicked, which made it worse,” John said. “But it was the infections that followed which made it hard for me. If given a choice, though? I’ll take a bullet any day. Burns can drag you down for months, even years.”

Sherlock had seen John’s scar and guessed as much, but it was something else to have his worst theories confirmed so casually. Not for the first time Sherlock wondered where and when John had learned to ignore himself so readily and with such ease.

The thought didn’t sit well with him at all.

“So, what did Mycroft want us to do?” Sherlock asked.

“Nothing, but I’m guessing we’ll be watched very carefully, or more so than usual. So, I don’t think we’ll have to contact him directly anyway.”

“I don’t like involving Mycroft in our cases,” Sherlock complained. “It never ends well.”

John shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. But you have to admit – if a biological weapon had been smuggled inside that rat – then it’d be best to have Mycroft involved before half of London ends up quarantined.”

“You and your love of cinema,” Sherlock scoffed. 

“Not Bond,” John protested. “Zombies!”

Sherlock actually gaped at him. “Zombies? Are you serious?”

“Be quiet, you haven’t seen _28 Days Later_ , have you?” John grinned and shook his head. “Scared my entire unit enough that we actually discussed how to survive a zombie apocalypse for a solid week.”

“Sterling recommendation, but I must pass.”

“It takes place in London, and Boyle actually shot the film here. It’s quite frightening.”

“London? Zombies?”

“I’m renting it,” John declared in his Captain’s voice. “No arguments. You’ll love it. We’re talking breakdown of civilization, running and chasing, enough moral ambiguity to choke Moriarty, and loads of weapons.”

“With zombies?”

“With zombies.” John paused for a moment and added, “Speaking of zombies, are there any more contributions from Mr. Wendell that I should be made aware of?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, I just needed his left buttock cheek because of the tattoo. The ink is very unique, and I wished to further study it and its effects on human tissue.”

John buried his face in his hands. Seriously, how could any zombie film possibly scare him when he was living with Sherlock? And Mr. Wendell’s left arse in the freezer?

* * *

John’s good mood lasted until next morning when he realized Sherlock had slipped out some time after their talk and before he’d awakened. 

So, he waited patiently for Sherlock to return. John had just enough self-control to let Sherlock take off his coat and get comfortable, before flattening him to the floor.

_I can’t bloody well believe it_ , John seethed. _Left me again, after all we’ve talked about!_

He heard Sherlock’s quick footsteps hurdling up the stairs and riled himself for a good snit. The door banged open, Sherlock entered with his usual drama, and tossed a small object right at John.

The doctor caught the package in midair. “What is it?”

“Another Sumatra rat.”

John gingerly held the box away from his person. “Really? Sometimes I wonder if you were a cat in another life, with dragging all these dead things into our flat.”

Sherlock grinned. “That would be interesting. Open the box, aren’t you curious?”

John gave a narrow glance at his friend before opening the lid. With a harsh, “Bloody fuck!” he slammed the lid closed and put the box on a table.

“And that is what a four-day old decayed Sumatra rat looks like.”

John gave a horrified glance at his friend. “Where in bloody fuck did you get that?”

“At an incinerator near the wharfs,” Sherlock answered. “The company burns most organic compounds, which is to say rats and other such things, for various shipping firms. I put out a word last night and got a call this morning. Those rats are rather legendary, actually, so many workers know about them.”

John took a deep breath and was about to unleash a tirade when he realized something. “Our rat didn’t look anything like that one. In fact, our rat looked like it just died.”

Sherlock leaned forward on his chair. “What if it is the rat? What if the curator was killed because of the rat?”

“So, there was nothing smuggled inside the rat,” John concluded. “What happened to the rat that made it worth murder?”

“That is an interesting question, indeed.”

* * *

John quietly followed Sherlock as he went room from room, trying to figure out the victim’s final steps.

“She was of average height, slender. From the muscle tone I’d say she was a dedicated yoga practitioner. That would accommodate her job, as she would have to hunch over small objects for hours at a time.”

John looked at the largest pedestal in which a small but lovely sculpture sat. It was that of a Grecian child looking down at her feet. The face was what had caught his attention: a marvelous blend of curiosity and delight.

“Had no idea Greeks made statues of children,” John commented airily. “I’ve only ever seen adults.”

“There is a reason for that,” Sherlock said as he hunted through paperwork. “The statue you’re admiring is a pre-Raphaelite, a very romanticized version of childhood innocence.”

John grinned and shook his head. “Let me guess, this one has a sordid history?”

“No, only a suicide; tedious, really.”

John chuckled softly and studied the statue. It wasn’t until he was getting bored that he asked, “Sherlock, why is this on a pedestal?”

“Because it is a statue?” was the dry answer.

“No, you git, I mean if she was working on it – shouldn’t it be on something that’s a bit more stable than a column?”

By the time John stopped talking Sherlock was standing next to him. The detective studied the statue thoroughly and then the pedestal. He even upended both, just to make sure they didn't contain any secret chambers.

“Nothing special,” Sherlock announced in a disappointed voice. “She might not have gotten…”

John waited patiently as Sherlock’s thought process shifted to even higher gear. After few minutes, the detective turned around and faced the largest window in the workspace. The vista was beautiful if also barren.

John followed his gaze to a tall, glass building only few blocks away. “What is that?”

“Neuman Pharmaceuticals,” Sherlock answered in a dreamy voice. “They are the leading research lab for Marisol Skin Care.”

“They have an actual lab in the middle of London? Bloody hell, they must be drowning in money.” John frowned as he recollected the pricy bottles squirreled away in his sister’s bathroom. “Wait a minute: Marisol? Don’t they cost like two hundred pounds per ounce or something just as ridiculous?”

“That’s the cheaper end of the line,” Sherlock said, his gaze never wavering from the window. “John, could you do me the courtesy and find out who donated this statue to the museum?”

John disappeared from the room only to reenter few minutes later. “Doctor Matilda Briggs, currently Chief of Research, at Neuman Pharmaceuticals.”

“And there we have it, John. There we have it.”

John stood next to Sherlock and examined the beautiful, cold tower violating the skyline. “What’s happening here?”

“Something worse than murder of a single person, I think. Something a great deal worse.”

Sherlock turned to see John’s gentle eyes turn flinty with resolve and anger. He didn’t have to ask: he knew John was imagining the poor woman, struggling as her killer crucified her dying body onto the floor.

_An indignity even John can’t stomach; even after all his experience fighting._

And for the thousandth time, John Watson once more took Sherlock by surprise. The detective wondered if there would be a day that his friend would cease to amaze him. 

Sherlock sincerely doubted such a day would come.

* * *

The moment John entered the flat Sherlock knew he was in for a treat. Rarely had John sported such maniacal grin without reason.

“Doctor Matilda Briggs and Professor Lara Silva went to the same school.”

Sherlock frowned. “Silva was British? I heard her voice mail. Her accent had a New England dash in her vowels.”

“Her mother was a native Londoner,” John answered as he pulled out a sheaf of papers from his jacket and handed the bundle over to Sherlock. “Lestrade found something interesting. Silva went to Columbia University in New York the same time Briggs did. We couldn’t get official records for now, but we interviewed family members, and the two women were in the same dormitory for Silva's freshman year.”

Sherlock scanned the pages. “Silva has dual citizenship.”

“Her father wasn’t too happy with his ex-wife when she started to date men so young they could actually be his daughter’s boyfriends. So, he offered to pay for Dr. Silva’s education if she came to the States. I guess she agreed. Briggs finished a year ahead of Silva, but that must have been where the friendship started. They both receive regular email updates about alumni affairs held in London.

“Lestrade is trying to find out if they met at a function held last December.”

“There was a company-wide email that went out yesterday saying Dr. Matilda Briggs left London, for personal reasons,” Sherlock said as he handed over his laptop. “A Mr. Morgan will be handling her duties until she returns.”

John scanned the email. “She hasn’t gone anywhere, has she?”

“Considering the GPS in her phone indicates that she is still in the corporate building, no.”

“They're holding her hostage?”

“Probably trying to figure out how much information she has leaked.”

“You know something, don’t you?” John asked.

“Marisol Skin Care has come up with yet another fantastic idea to milk the masses,” Sherlock explained sarcastically. “A beauty pill.”

John blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“A pill that is supposed to help you look better,” Sherlock said, sarcasm growing with every word. “Clearer skin, fairer complexion – yes, fairer, and other benefits.”

John snorted. “You must be joking!”

Sherlock opened another webpage and showed it to John, who examined the contents with growing disbelief.

“This is complete bollocks!” John cried out. “Who in bloody hell would buy this shite?”

“As long as there is scientific evidence to back up the claims, a lot of people, actually.” Sherlock’s smile was grim. “And Neuman was the driving force behind the creation of this so-called beauty pill.”

“So, you think the rat has some connection to this?”

“As one of the main ingredients is supposed to have been derived from a plant in Indonesia, definitely.”

“Sherlock, please tell me you have a plan. I talked with Lestrade and Donovan, and I hate to say it, but the Met isn’t making any headway in this case.”

“We break into the corporate headquarters, rescue Doctor Briggs, grab a rat, and escape.”

John’s look of disbelief was coupled with a pained noise. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was,” Sherlock confessed. “Their network is astonishingly advanced, which isn’t surprising, so I was unable completely access their servers. However, I was able to see some of their security feeds, so I have an idea where they are keeping Dr. Briggs.”

“And the rats?”

“Not surprisingly on the same floor ... I think.”

John giggled a little and shook his head. “So, we’re breaking heaven knows how many laws, into a building whose infrastructure left you shocked, and deal with rodents probably contaminated with only god knows what?”

“Yes.”

“I’m bringing my gun.”

* * *

“Well, buggering fuck,” John said as he pulled out the hideous janitorial costume from the bag. “At least it’s my size.”

“I had to tailor it especially short,” Sherlock said, smirking. 

Then, without warning and in flurry of movements, Sherlock stripped down to his pants. John sighed and rolled his eyes. He had gotten used to Sherlock’s complete lack of modesty, especially regarding his body, and just walked out of the kitchen.

Sherlock felt annoyance as he heard John march up the stairs to change in his bedroom. For an army man, John had fastidious habits when it came to his body. His shirts were always wrist-length, and when he’d woken John would always wear a robe before leaving his room. Not once had Sherlock ever seen John walk around the flat just in his pyjamas. 

What was even more aggravating was that in the eighteen months they’d been living together, Sherlock had only a single glimpse of John’s scar and that was by accident.

Well, accident in that Sherlock barged in on John taking a shower. John’s squawk of protest quickly died as Sherlock shoved him aside and stood under the spray in the hopes that the plant dye wouldn't permanently color his skin fuschia.

He heard John muttering curses and by the time Sherlock realized what a fantastic opportunity he had, John had once again donned the robe like bloody armour. 

Sherlock gave himself a mental slap when he heard John slam the door shut.

In fact, the main reason he’d accepted the tutoring lessons from John was the single, gleaming hope that his friend would actually wear workout shorts.

No such luck. The man seemed to have hidden a truckload of sweatshirts and track pants, though Sherlock had no idea where, since he’d thrown John’s room more than once out of petulance and boredom.

Sherlock looked down at himself and grimaced. Mashed pea green flattered no one. Then, to add insult to injury he had to wear trainers whose color was actually urine yellow. He’d bought the monstrosities for a case and had forgotten them until he’d realized the cleaning staff couldn’t be seen wearing handmade Italian shoes at work.

Sherlock was debating whether to dash out and buy a new pair when he heard John come down the stairs. With a dejected sigh, Sherlock braced himself for some ribbing for his eye-watering outfit.

The sight that greeted him stopped Sherlock from going on the offense.

John was wearing a baseball cap; one of those heinous things that footballers would wear to proudly announce their allegiance. But it wasn’t the offensive bit of headgear that shocked Sherlock; it was how young John looked.

Because of the careworn lines, of which Sherlock had authored many, John looked older than his years. For many men this would wound their vanity, but not John. He carried his worn skin like his scars, with little fanfare and a lot of gracious humour. 

But, wearing the cap tipped back on his head, the pea soup outfit, and the beaten army boots – John looked all of twenty. And for a moment Sherlock imagined young John Watson just like this: carefree and beaming because he found something hilarious and was dying to share.

And Sherlock finally allowed himself to name what he felt: Desire, maybe even something akin to love. And it wasn’t a bad thing, really. To fall in love with a decent man like John Watson? He could’ve done worse. Sherlock surely had flirted with worse during his academic days. And to tell the truth, if someone like Watson came across his path, Sherlock wasn’t sure his youthful self would have had the good sense to appreciate such a man.

But, here he was now: a former addict, a detective who got paid a pittance for his work, but wiser in his years and so grateful for it.

“What do you think?” John asked, turning around. “Hideous, isn’t it?”

“So why are you smiling?” Sherlock asked, not fighting back his amusement.

“I think if Mycroft invites us to his fancy dress party this year, I’m going to go. Just like this!” John declared, patting his midriff like he’d just eaten a good meal.

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed.

“And I’ll buy you dinner if you go with me dressed like that!” John added, looking cheekier than Puck.

“Oh, you won’t have to do anything. In fact, I’ll insist Mycroft invite us this year!”

Their laughter floated down with them as they exited 221b and hailed a cab.


	3. Bleach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There’s something in there!” John stuttered out. “It was huge, and I mean … oh Jesus, what was that?!”

“So … Mike,” Mr. McKenzie said as he warily eyed John, “you’re sure you can handle the labs?”

“Oh yeah,” John answered, his accent suddenly broader than the West Country. “Been working at Barts part time.”

McKenzie’s suspicions seemed to double by John’s disclosure. “Then why are you taking this position?”

“Need the money, don’t I? And it’s only for a week,” John answered. “Been going to night school, studying computers and like.”

Mr. McKenzie smiled. He obviously liked a go-getter. “Good man. And you, Killian?”

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. “My Da could do with some scratch. And Mike here is my mate. Where he goes, I go. I get bored when he's not around.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Mr. McKenzie. “You’ll have access to most labs, save for the ones on the 18th and 19th floor. Those need special handling, so make sure you have Sue or Larry with you if you go. They’ll probably need your help anyways, because those science monkeys treat their offices like three-year-olds would treat their toys.”

John winced and then shrugged; a universal gesture of ‘what can you do’, as a show of commiseration.

McKenzie gave them their badges and passkeys before leaving the locker room. The two men remained silent as they finished getting the necessary cleaning supplies before leaving.

“How did you get us in?” John asked quietly as they wheeled their trolleys down a busy corridor.

The janitorial staff is in-house,” Sherlock explained, “but any replacement workers are outsourced. I just hacked into their preferred temp services and put our names on the lists.”

“What happened to the workers we’ve replaced?” John asked, dreading the answer.

“Very bad bouts of food poisoning,” Sherlock whispered. “Can’t trust the local houses anymore. Never know what’s crawling around the taps.”

“What is this world coming to?”

To Sherlock’s unending horror, it turned out Mike and Killian actually had to clean all the men’s restrooms on every single floor from the lobby up.

John thought it hilarious that Sherlock was squeamish about scrubbing the toilets when he dealt with necrotizing flesh on almost daily basis.

John, on the other hand, had absolutely no problem going on his knees to wipe up messes, bleach corners, and replace nearly-empty rolls of toilet paper. He did all these chores at 221B, so as Mike he didn’t mind performing the same duties on a bigger scale. And watching Sherlock recoil from a used wad of tissue definitely had its entertainment value.

So, the two men slowly made their way up, fulfilling their duties, and being ignored by everyone including the security. It was on the fourteenth floor that a woman also in a janitorial garb approached them.

“You’re Mike and Killian?” she asked.

“Yes,” John answered, looking so innocent he might as well be sporting a halo.

“I’m Susan, and I deal with the top floors.”

John winced. “Oh God, not another plugged toilet.”

Susan laughed, a brash and bright sound. “No, we’ve got vomiting though. In one of the side rooms on the eighteenth floor.”

Sherlock scratched his nose and asked, “Is that where they keep the rats? ‘Cause I’m not touching them, says right there on my contract.”

John elbowed him and apologetically explained, “He had a bad meet with one some time back, so I take care of any rooms that have live specimens.”

Susan shook her head. “No, no rodents I know of, at least on the eighteenth floor. Some of the researchers kip overnight, so the company has these suites where people can rest up and take a shower after.”

“Sounds like a good plan,” John said. “Do you want us to go alone or do you want to come with us?”

“Come with,” Susan said, then stretched and yawned mightily. “But don’t mind if I start on the nineteenth? It’s not like there’s anything … oh wait.”

Sherlock grunted. “What now?”

“There are some men on the eighteenth doing some hush hush work,” Susan said. “Something about updating databases and other stuff that we peons aren’t allowed to know.”

“And that’s just brilliant,” John said drily. “I bet they’ve kipped too, and the suites will look like a sty.”

Susan laughed softly. “Won’t bet against that.”

“Don’t we need sheets?” John asked politely. “And toiletries?”

“All the suites have the stuff already,” Susan answered, looking impressed by John’s questions. “We replace them weekly. Can you make hospital corners?”

John nodded. “We work at Barts on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Good man,” Susan said. “Follow me!”

They took an elevator segregated from the rest in the northwest corner of the building. It didn’t have buttons, just a card reader.

Susan swiped her ID, and the elevator began ascending. “Eighteenth,” she said, when it began politely chiming.

“Wow, I’m guessing the company does some government work,” John said.

Sherlock tried not to snigger at John’s accent. He realized immediately that John was mimicking Lestrade. And Sherlock had to admit that it was a good idea. Lestrade’s accent along with his approachable demeanor was one of the reasons for his continued success.

That, and unholy amount of doggedness.

“Wouldn’t have a clue,” Susan answered, then frowned and looked at them. “Don’t be daft, all right? People up there are wired as tight as they can get. Some of them are a baby’s breath away from snapping. Hell, three weeks ago, one of their chief researchers hung herself in the bloody lab.”

John winced. “That’s a shame. And no, we won’t ask questions. Not like we could understand nothing anyway.”

Sherlock mentally flinched at John’s grammar, but his explanation was more than enough to calm down the supervisor.

The elevator came to a smooth stop and soundlessly opened to what looked like a television set of a science lab. The floors were pristine white, the walls whiter. The only thing paler than the settings was the staff, busying about. They looked over-caffeinated, under-nourished, and generally fueled by similar drive that many such geniuses possessed.

Susan didn’t acknowledge anyone and they were ignored in turn. She led them down a hallway with four wooden doors, all widely spaced apart.

“These are the suites. Just ring me on the comm when you’re done,” Sue explained, wiggling the handset in her grasp and handing its partner to John. “And I’ll bring you up.”

John’s mock salute was made sweet by his boyish face and the cap, which was still tilted back. Susan’s bark of laughter trailed in her wake as she left them.

Sherlock remained in character and so did John. They had both spotted the hidden cameras and the surveillance system sprinkled throughout the hallway. So, in agreeable silence peppered by genial swearing, the two men cleaned the suites. 

John managed a swig of water from the faucet before nodding to Sherlock.

“Hey, Susan,” John announced into the handset, “we’re done!”

“I’ll meet you by the elevator,” Susan answered, far less cheerful than earlier.

John looked at Sherlock and shrugged. “What now?”

Sherlock led them to the elevator and waited. The doors slid open but there was no one inside. The two men hesitated but got in along with their trolleys. The ride took only a moment and a dour-faced Susan greeted them on the nineteenth.

“It’s a right mess,” Susan grumbled under her breath. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear one of the brainiacs had a birthday do.”

“Fantastic,” John grumbled and followed Susan. 

The ambiance in the floor was great deal grimmer than the one below. And there were fewer people milling about, all security. Sherlock’s sense of foreboding shifted up a gear when they were led to a large suite that seemed to have taken up the entire left half of the floor. Susan entered the kitchen to finish her work. John and Sherlock began cleaning the main living area, which was indeed a mess, but underneath it all was the unmistakable scent of bleach. 

Sherlock started vacuuming while John emptied the bins. He spotted John deftly pocketing some torn bits of paper while sorting out the trash for recyclable materials. 

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to discover the source of the acrid smell: the corner furthest from the windows. The bleach had lightened the carpet and there was a mismatched armchair that seemed brand new. 

_She’s dead_ , Sherlock thought in silent distaste. _They shot her right here. And from the patterns on the carpet and the wall, she bled to death. We are the cleanup crew._

John seemed to have reached the same conclusion as he gave the detective a knowing glance before going down the hallway to the bathroom. It was also badly used, with the bins nearly overflowing. Sherlock pocketed few tissues that looked to contain bloodstains while emptying it and the other basket in the bathroom. From the scent and the toiletries used, he knew a woman had stayed in the suite.

_Female, age between 35-45. Makeup and pain medication indicates a woman who is self-assured and knows her preferences. From the imprints on the carpet, she is ten stones, and favors pumps with low heels. The left imprint is deeper, which indicates she is favoring her right leg. Possibly injured by her captors. There is no evidence to indicate physical torture, but cannot rule out psychological or pharmacological methods._

“Anything else?” John asked cheerfully after he made the bed.

One of the guards wordlessly led them through a set of doors to a small but fully equipped lab. The unease Sherlock was feeling was now amped up to a level he was sure John could sense.

There were only three staff members and they all looked to be properly cowed. All were pale, hollow-eyed and, without exception, terrified.

John gave a friendly wave and began emptying out the bins while Sherlock restocked the refrigerators that dotted the room. Even Susan was rushing through, obviously sensing tension and not wanting to be part of it any more than necessary.

John noticed Sherlock eyeing a woman in the corner and his focus shifted to her. She had been crying recently, and the way she had tugged down the cuffs of her lab coat made it obvious she was hiding bruises. 

Sherlock concluded these three were either prisoners or future victims. Either way, their lifespans were about to be severely shortened. 

John risked a glance at the biggest worktable and realized they were distilling something. 

Without warning Sherlock bumped into him. “Hey, can you clean there?” he asked, frantically pointing to a small room whose door was wide open. “You know I hate rats.”

John nodded. “Not a problem.”

He gave a pat on Sherlock’s shoulder and moved along, pushing his trolley in front of him. 

Sherlock saw a guard stare at him speculatively. “I work at Barts,” Sherlock explained with a queasy expression. “Got locked into a room with them things overnight. Gave me right nightmares for weeks on end.”

The guard looked disturbed by Sherlock’s confession and refocused his attention elsewhere. Nobody liked to be locked in a room without an escape. Add rats to that and genuine distress was always the end result.

Susan followed John, holding two bottles of disinfectant. 

They were gone less than a minute before a strangled cry exploded from the room. John reappeared with Susan in his arms. She was holding her left hand, crying.

“It bit me! Oh my God, am I going to die?” she asked, looking around wildly.

Her obvious fear did the trick and one of the researchers bravely stepped out of her corner. “No,” the young woman said quietly. “But you should get it looked at.”

John suddenly jumped as if he’d been gooses and yelled on top of his lungs, startling everyone into looking at him. His eyes were wide with horror as he pointed into the room he and Susan just vacated.

“What the bleeding fuck is that?” he asked.

The guards rushed to his side, each trying to see what he was looking at. That diversion gave John enough time to move back, towards Sherlock.

“There’s something in there!” John stuttered out. “It was huge, and I mean … oh Jesus, what was that?!”

Two of the researchers looked at each other in confusion. The third studied Sherlock for a moment before gasping.

“They killed her! They shot her!” she yelled as loudly as possible, negating whatever plans John was implementing.

The four guards stared dumbly at the woman before all hell broke loose.

John tackled two to the ground while Sherlock went for the third. Susan, ever fearless, hit the fourth with her mop. It glanced off the man but the researchers were galvanized and tackled him against the wall.

Then, the four guards were wrestled into the small room and locked in but not before they were stripped of everything useful.

“What in bleeding fuck is going on?” Susan asked, panting.

“They murdered Dr. Briggs and Dr. Moye,” was the answer.

Susan paled. “Oh Jesus, are you serious? Moye didn’t commit suicide?”

The female who had screamed earlier promptly burst into tears. An older man, looking dignified in spite of a split lip, said, “This is Dr. Marie, I am Dr. Thomas. The other gentleman is Dr. Suh. We’ve been trapped here since yesterday.”

“Why don’t we discuss this somewhere safer?” John asked, his tone friendly but firm.

“Follow me,” Dr. Thomas said. 

He led them to a door located at the left corner. 

“I thought this was a supply room,” Susan said as she watched the researcher punch in a number sequence.

Dr. Thomas opened the door to a stairwell. “It doesn’t go all the way to the ground floor,” he said. “But it’ll take us to the sixteenth.”

“What happened?” John asked as they made their way down cautiously.

“Dr. Moye was researching the main protein compound of the RM-12, or the beauty pill as it’s known to the public,” Dr. Thomas explained in a tense voice. “She found something horrifying. You must know, we didn’t invent the bloody thing. Its originated out of Neuman’s production lab in Bangkok, so we had no idea what went into the research.”

“What?” John was shocked. “From the press release makes it sound like the bloody thing was created here in London!”

Dr. Thomas shook his head violently. “No, that’s not right. We just started looking at it three weeks ago, as is standard procedure. Anyway, the so-called magic ingredient was supposed to have been discovered because the rats of Sumatra had been ingesting seeds from a plant which had given them longevity and other attractive attributes.”

“Oh yeah, about that,” John said and suddenly yanked out a rat’s carcass from his jumpsuit. Susan gave a small shriek while Sherlock gasped in surprise.

“You got one,” he said ecstatically.

“The bloody cages didn’t have real locks,” John explained. “And I had to open one so the bastards would actually believe me when I said something escaped.”

Sherlock pointed to the rat carcass. “What is so special about them?”

“Oh, the rats definitely ate the seeds,” Dr. Marie continued. “But the plants are extremely toxic, and the rats die from their specialized diet.”

“The so-called beauty pill is poisonous?” John asked grimly.

“If the person ingests it for the long term, then yes, fatally so,” Dr. Thomas said. “We’ve been trying to extract the toxicity but we can’t. Of course, as long as the customer takes it in small increments it shouldn’t case any harm.”

“But we’re talking about beauty,” Sherlock said. “Guaranteed stupidity where that’s concerned.”

“So, the rats are preserved well because of the plant,” John concluded. “It’s just the fact that the plant also kills them.”

“Beautiful corpses,” Susan whispered. “Holy Mother Mary.”

“By the time the pill is taken off the shelves, both Marisol and Neuman would have made billions,” Dr. Thomas said. “And they would blame faulty research, Dr. Briggs, Dr. Moye, and us.”

“While they get away with mass poisoning,” John concluded.

The group finally ended up on the sixteenth floor landing. John took a quick peek and mapped out a route that could be used without being caught by the cameras.

The sanctuary they found was tiny; it was an office at some point, but was now used as storage space.

“What are you going to do?” Dr. Marie asked.

John studied Sherlock and then at the group. They looked brave but it was obvious to the ex-soldier that the men and women were only minutes away from all out panic.

Sherlock took the rat from John and slammed it on the edge of a desk. There was a sickening crack, which drew whimpers from the group.

John, on the other hand, moaned in frustration. “You must be joking.”

Sherlock looked up from his grisly work and noticed the horrified looks. “What?” he barked. “I’m hardly splitting a mewling infant!”

With that caustic remark, Sherlock cut the rat roughly in half using rusty shears and stubbornness. He wrapped one half in a rag that had been tucked in his pocket and shoved it to Dr. Thomas who took the offering with grimace. 

“Hold on to that,” he ordered. “Susan, are you familiar with this building? Knows where the cameras are and such?”

Susan replied with a shocked, “Uhhh…”

“You must,” Sherlock insisted. “The corners where the cleaning staff could take smoking breaks, maybe have a shag or two?”

Susan nodded. “Well, yeah.”

“Lead them to the lowest floor you can without being noticed and find a place to hide.”

“What are you going to do?” Susan asked.

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll phone my contact at the Yard and tell them what’s been happening.”

“But that’ll notify the security where you are,” Dr. Thomas said.

“Exactly,” John answered quietly. ““We’re going to lead them away from you. They are expecting us to flee as soon as possible. Even if they realize we’ve split up, they’ll concentrate on the ground floor and the garage.”

Dr. Thomas turned even paler but gave a single, firm nod along with “thank you”.

“All right then,” John said and then turned to Sherlock. “The game is on?”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock replied.

Then the two men, without another word, left the room.

* * *

“So, we have one gun, twelve bullets, and half a rat from Sumatra,” John concluded softly. “Maybe the prettiest rat in all of existence, but hardly worth dying for, don’t you think?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked upwards, signaling to John that his friend was actually finding humour in their lethal situation.

He led them to the fourteenth floor, to yet another office that had been converted into what looked like a temporary break room for the staff.

Sherlock moved around, checking for signals. 

“There you are,” he whispered and then rapidly fired off a text.

“Please tell me you contacted Mycroft,” John whispered.

Sherlock flashed him his phone.

> Found evidence of mass poisoning that could effect international finances. Lestrade is aware. SOS.

“Can they jam us?” John asked. 

“They will, soon,” Sherlock answered. “They’ll probably try to locate us before shutting down my phone. We must move quickly. Is your phone working?”

John checked. “For now.”

“Mycroft will have activated the trackers on both,” Sherlock said. “Since he uses specialized ones, it will take Neuman a while yet to stop the transmission.”

“Let’s get moving!”

They made their way to a corner stairwell that was only to be used for emergencies. Hugging the wall and timing their path, the two men were able to avoid the cameras. However, their stealth was all for naught when Sherlock opened the door to the fourteenth floor and came face to face with a guard.

_Not a guard but an assassin. Knife in sheath on both forearms. Two guns, one a Glock, the other a modified…_

Sherlock never finished his mental listing as John grabbed the man by the lapels and shoved him into the stairwell. The guard gracefully spun halfway, using his back and left arm against John in order to pull out his gun and not have John interfere with his grip.

John was obviously ready for the tactic. The man had a solid nine inches on him in height and the bastard’s shoulders seemed just as broad, making it impossible for John to get his arms around him. Sherlock bolted forward to tackle the killer when John did something Sherlock had never seen.

He grabbed the man by the back of his hair and slammed the head forward with such strength that Sherlock heard a crunch: impact of chin against sternum. The man opened his mouth to howl in pain and that was when John shoved his entire left hand into the man’s mouth, grabbing the jaw. Then, with a small leap, he landed his feet on the back of the guard’s calves while wrapping his entire arm around the thick neck.

With a sickening crunch, he twisted the jaw one way while torquing the neck in the complete opposite direction.

Sherlock saw all this in almost slow motion, but the truth was it took John less than two seconds to literally tear the man’s spine apart. And the poor bastard hadn’t made a single sound the entire time.

John slowly lowered the body, making sure he made least amount of noise as possible.

 _What are you?_ Sherlock thought numbly as he watched. The body wasn’t even bleeding. If Sherlock hadn’t seen the kill he would’ve thought the man had fallen unconscious.

John quickly divested the corpse of all its hardware and the handheld clipped into an inner pocket. He tossed it and the matching earpiece to Sherlock with a pleading look.

Sherlock gave a small nod, signaling that he wasn’t about to lose his composure and run away screaming.

John gave an awkward grin and motioned Sherlock to follow him down the stairs. Sherlock put on the earpiece and began listening to the chatter.

* * *

Lestrade swore and swore loudly, using every profanity he had the misfortune to hear while working.

“They couldn’t wait, could they?!” he yelled at the dash. “Oh, no. Not the world’s only consulting bastard and his suicidal lemming of a partner. No, they had to go into the hornet’s nest and just stir up as much trouble as possible.”

“Exactly what are they doing there anyway?” Donovan asked, her grip on the dashboard tightening as Lestrade took another hairy turn.

“Stealing a rat, probably,” Lestrade answered. “And I’ll bet my pathetic bank account that they either found a body or maybe even bodies.”

“I can’t believe this,” Donovan said. “Marisol’s got a great reputation.”

“Not Marisol, but Neuman, their research company,” Lestrade corrected. “And these bastards must have been making mint for years doing only God knows what.”

“My sister uses their product,” Donovan protested. “Jesus, if anything happens to her, Neuman’s going to wish Sherlock set their building on fire!”

Lestrade snorted, horrified to find himself amused, but he was also grateful that he could find some sort of humour in the neverending horror story that was Sherlock Holmes.

_How is it Mycroft hasn’t sectioned him yet? Is their mother really that terrifying?_

* * *

The tenth floor was definitely busier which was how they were able to get Sherlock a decent outfit after divesting the hideous jumpsuits. John had a dress shirt and trousers under the janitorial garb, but Sherlock hadn’t. So, they had to find decent substitutes by raiding offices and emptying various workout bags and drawers of secondary outfits.

John also managed to swipe a pair of reading spectacles which made him look even more hapless than usual. Sherlock found some chalk, grounded it and added water, liberally dusting sides of his hair while slicking it back, making him look older. He also completely transformed his body language; his slight hobble making him look like a mid-tier office manager whose job security was definitely on the downswing.

Meanwhile, the chatter had exploded right before radio silence was ordered. Obviously, the body was found and his cohorts had discovered the missing weapons and radio.

It didn’t take Sherlock long to figure out the new channel since the one thing security could be depended on was to be obvious. At least to him.

“They’re coming to this floor after sweeping the eleventh,” Sherlock informed John after they dodged into a copy room to take a break. "We have five minutes at most."

John took a swig of water and handed over the bottle. “They’re probably running facial recognition programmes by now. They also can’t contact anyone on the floors directly because that would mean witnesses and even more cleanup down the road.

“Too many deaths would attract unwanted attention.”

Sherlock tried to look out the window but all he saw was a busy street. “Damn, where is Lestrade?”

“Here,” John said, shoving little clumps of paper onto Sherlock’s hand. He then stuffed some into his mouth, puffing out his cheeks a little. It was just enough to alter his facial features. Sherlock looked at the mess in his hands and sighed.

“Yes, you must,” John mumbled, blushing since he sounded like he was trying to seduce Sherlock while suffering from a serious case of sinusitis.

Sherlock stuffed the little paper gobs in his mouth, moved the bits to his cheeks, and then promptly swallowed the entire lot. He had to take a swig of water in order not to gag.

John bit back his laugh and instead said, “Tuck your chin into your chest and let’s just get a move on.”

* * *

“So, we’re going upstairs, now,” Lestrade said patiently.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but unless you have a warrant or a scheduled meeting, we cannot allow you any further than the lobby,” the receptionist politely argued.

“Look, don’t bother using the royal ‘we’,” Donovan snapped. “Oh hey, look at that,” she said when she saw who was calling her on the phone. “It’s Tommy from the _Mail_. I was supposed to email him our conclusion to the Henderson kidnapping case this morning.”

At that the receptionist’s fair colouring went snow-white. “Let me make a call.”

“Why don’t you do that?” Lestrade offered with a disarming smile.

Donovan raised a finger, a universal gesture for patience, and wandered away to quietly talk to her Mum.

* * *

The eighth floor, unfortunately, was completely emptied as it was being renovated. For a moment, Sherlock was tempted to use the garbage chute as a method of escape but John had reasonably pointed out that since the material was thin sheet of plastic and was practically vertical, they would end up in something akin to freefall and die a bruising death at the bottom.

It was to their fortune that Sherlock was alerted to a guard scanning the floor. And it didn’t take John long to set up a trap and Sherlock to volunteer as bait. He led the man into a labyrinth of half-finished corridors while dodging gunfire. 

His chaser used a suppressor for his gun, but unlike what you’d see on the telly, it definitely made noises. All of which alerted John to their movement. 

Sherlock turned a violent left and disappeared down yet another corridor. The man followed and got a face full of rebar for his troubles.

John used copper wire to tie the man’s hands and feet together, anchoring him face down so he wouldn’t drown in his own blood. He then emptied out the man of all his weapons, which at this point was getting simply ridiculous. John tossed aside the knives but used the gun with the suppressor and once again handed the radio to Sherlock.

“Why can’t I have a gun?” Sherlock finally complained. How was it fair that John was carrying three on his person while all Sherlock had was a knife, and a blunt one at that?

“Because you always pull left,” John answered. “And I dodge left if you didn’t already realize.”

Sherlock paused to reconsider and decided not to argue any further.

“How many floors before we’re safe?” John asked.

“If Lestrade is here, then we have to reach the second floor,” Sherlock answered. “If it’s just Mycroft, then we must get to the lobby for his people to take action.”

“Bloody hell,” John hissed. “The others? Are they still safe?”

“Susan must know this place very well because security is having fits trying to locate them.”

John gave a small laugh and peeked around the corner to make sure it was clear. “A girl after my own heart.”

Sherlock spotted the stack of bottled water, and his eyes suddenly sharpened with gleeful malice. “I have an idea.”

* * *

“So, you’re telling us that there hasn’t been _any_ trouble?” Donovan echoed the newest handler to block their path.

The woman’s smile was all teeth and nicety. “None whatsoever. I am afraid someone…”

The entire building suddenly went dark before the emergency lights kicked on.

Lestrade’s face was a picture of stoicism as he said, “So, about that problem you’ve not been having…”

* * *

It took John a moment to figure out what his friend was planning as he watched Sherlock peel back the temporary floor covering, fiddle with the wiring, and then roll the opened water coolers over the entire mess.

John looked at the flood and the sparks as the water cascaded into the exposed wiring. “That was impressive.”

Sherlock looked ecstatic as he studied the chaos. “I've dreamt of this since I was nine!”

John gave a single nod and shoved Sherlock towards a staircase that was being built into the floor below. “Let’s not waste time admiring your propensity for destruction!”

They were halfway down the stairs when a pain-filled scream followed by the sound of dancing electricity reached their ears.

“One more down,” John whispered as he dragged Sherlock to the seventh floor. 

They found half of it disused and the rest occupied by empty offices. Their surrounding was much harder to see as the lights had gone out.

“Emergency generators must have kicked in,” John said softly as the red backup lights made everything look garish. “Which means the basement’s useless. Those things always have guards or engineers looking after them.”

“This is strange,” Sherlock said as he studied the ceilings. 

“This entire building is strange,” John hissed. “In fact, our situation the moment we entered this building has been, quite frankly, surreal!”

“No, John, look,” Sherlock insisted.

John took a studied glance around and stopped mid-step. “Is this a secret floor?”

Sherlock looked taken back by John’s announcement. “Secret floor? Like the ones the KGB rumoured to have built?”

“Not just the KGB,” John said. “Most intelligence agencies had them back in the day. Made more sense to have all the think tanks close by before computers and the internet hit.

“Some countries still do that, since the Net doesn’t exactly provide complete security.”

Before Sherlock could speak John raised a hand. Sherlock didn’t even bother to move and instead concentrated on the surroundings. The radio had been suspiciously silent since they’d reached this floor, which signaled that security had realized they’d been compromised, once again.

There was a slights scuffling noise but it was enough. John raised his gun and quietly pulled Sherlock behind him. They began retreating, but not in the way they’d come. Instead, Sherlock steered them towards the left corner of the building. If the seventh floor was anything like the eighth, Sherlock was sure that there would be another set of maze-like corridors that could double as a trap for John to effectively utilise.

Sherlock didn’t realize his mistake until the bullet hit the wall to his left, slicing through his earlobe. He dropped to the floor in shock; for a moment believing he’d been shot in the head.

John whirled to face the shooter and saw a wall instead. He didn’t hesitate and fired six shots, grouping them in pairs, all spaced eighteen inches apart, sixty inches in height.

There was not one but two solid thumps.

He grabbed Sherlock and dragged him away. It wasn’t until they were hiding under a conference table that he examined Sherlock’s wound.

“Jesus,” John whispered, “I thought they’d shot your head.”

“I thought that too,” Sherlock replied, his voice trembling.

John pulled out his tie from his trouser’s pocket and ripped the silk lining off of it. “Here, press it.”

“I’ll be useless,” Sherlock complained bitterly. “I can’t leave a blood trail behind us.”

“Don’t worry about that,” John said as he tossed aside an emptied Jericho. “Just stay behind me. The gunfire would’ve attracted the bastards anyway.”

“John, it may be best…”

“Not a chance,” John said heatedly. “Not leaving you behind. So, kick that idea right out of your head now, and instead, try to figure out a way for us to get out of here alive, eh?”

“You are a soldier…”

“Fuck you, and damn right I was a soldier,” John hissed. “And we never, ever left anyone behind. You get that? Abandoning our brothers was never something we talked about because it’s something that cannot be done. Why? Because if you can’t trust the man next to you, then why the fuck were you soldiering to begin with?

“So, here’s what needs to be done. Since that great big brain of yours doesn’t have a hole, use it. I’ll do the rest. Anything else? Shut your gob.”

Sherlock looked taken back by John’s harsh tone but underneath it all Sherlock heard something else clearly. He gave a nod and said, “All right. We have taken down five. And unless Neuman’s security is entirely composed of killers, I’m guessing they are quickly running out of guns-for-hire.”

John chuckled. “They really should talk to HR.”

Sherlock found himself grinning despite their grave situation. “The rest must realize by now their time is running out.”

“So, they’re going for an all-out push,” John concluded. “They can’t afford us escaping with half a rat.”

“I believe subtlety is not an issue any more,” Sherlock added. 

“So, as the Americans would say: It’s the Alamo.”

There was a heavy pause before Sherlock asked, “What does a town in Texas have to do with our situation?”

* * *

Lestrade politely shoved aside the burly guard who got in the way as the DI made it to the second floor. People were milling about, looking confused.

“Is there an emergency?” someone asked, her voice tremulous.

“No, of course not,” Diane, the uber-receptionist said. “Please go back to work.”

“And do what? All the systems are down,” an intrepid soul shouted. “Why are we still here? Shouldn’t we be evacuating?”

Lestrade could have shouted hallelujah as that was the cue he needed. He took out his ID card and flashed it though with the dim lighting, hardly anyone could see.

“I am Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. I need everyone to file out of the building in a calm and orderly manner. Please use the stairs as the elevators are down.”

“I am Detective Sergeant Donovan, I will try to assist anyone who cannot use the stairs.” With that, Sally unceremoniously shouldered Diane to the wall as she made her way to a woman on crutches.

Lestrade heard Diane whisper to her phone and knew she was talking to whoever was responsible for the human roadblocks that had been set the moment he and Donovan entered the building. He responded by calling his unit.

Just for spite, he called Tim in CO19 and pulled in every favour the bastard owed him. He also told the sharpshooter that Sherlock and John were trapped in the building. The specialist had a soft spot for Doctor Watson, as the man had prevented Tim’s wife from going into premature labour during a Christmas fete held by the Met.

He finished his call, turned to Diane and said, “So, let’s get the upper floors evacuated too, yeah?”

Even in the dim lighting he could plainly read the fury on the woman’s face.

* * *

Sherlock stopped and said, “Do you hear that?”

“People are on the move,” John answered. “Sounds like they’re being evacuated.”

“We have to join them, now. If the building is emptied and we’re not in the crowd, we’ll be easy targets.”

“Got it.”

John led them down a corridor and then another and another until Sherlock was sure his friend was just making arbitrary turns. Then, suddenly, a door loomed ahead.

Sherlock wisely remained quiet as John checked the corridors before trying the door. It was open. He turned to Sherlock and shook his head once. The detective stepped back until he was hidden behind a wall.

John opened it, scanned quickly before closing the door. Sherlock remained where he was.

The door blew open, as if it was hit by mortar. A man lunged in right after; his gun already trained chest-height even though he had to have felt the blast. That told Sherlock he was not only armed but was protected by high-grade body armour.

None of which helped when John took a head shot. 

He stripped the man only of his earpiece and he handed over to Sherlock. The detective listened and mimed with his hand. John gave a nod of understanding. The earpiece was rigged so the receiver was also a transponder. Sherlock couldn’t speak without being heard.

Sherlock motioned for John to move ahead of him. He then placed himself two steps behind John, his hand resting on the man’s right shoulder, gently guiding him down the stairs and onto the fifth floor.

* * *

Lestrade looked at the quickly emptying offices on the third floor and gave a low whistle, which caught the attention of the nearest constable.

“Any luck?” Lestrade asked.

The young man shook his head. “I haven’t recognized anyone by the descriptions you gave.” He paused for a moment, clearly wanting to continue.

“What is it, Constable?” Lestrade asked.

“And I grabbed everyone who was even remotely tall and thin,” the young man whispered. “And, sir, in a place like this, there aren’t many who fit that description.”

Lestrade barked out a laugh and sent the young man back to his duties. He caught sight of Donovan speaking to her comm. And watched the look of surprise dawn on her face.

He quickly marched towards her. “Any news?”

“Constable Singh said he heard an explosion upstairs, in the far-east north corner of the building.” 

“Of course those two idiots would blow up something.” Lestrade took a deep breath and added, “Thank God.”

The detectives scrambled up the stairwell, slowly wending their way against the evacuees.

* * *

“Well, this is awkward,” the pretty blonde said as she gave a smile, and a genuine one at that.

“Isn’t it just?” John answered, his aim never wavering as the two faced off in the middle of the third floor.

“I bet you were expecting the big boys, with big guns?” she added, her grin infectious. “Instead, you have only a woman to deal with.”

John barked out a laugh. “You haven’t met my chief nurse during my second tour in Iraq. Marta would put you to rights for saying something so stupid.”

“Finally, a man who knows his place,” the woman said with a sigh. “I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

“The feeling is mutual,” John said. “But here we are. By the way, what did you hit Sherlock with?”

“A taser, nothing special,” she answered. “Trust me, neurotoxins and all that nonsense doesn’t work for me. A good old fashioned bullet is more my type.”

“A girl after my own heart. You and Susan would’ve gotten along just fine.”

“Is that who’s been helping the scientists? Damn, no wonder they’ve been invisible.”

“The police are here. You pull that trigger and you’re going to be in a world of hurt. And I’m not talking about me. Sherlock’s going to be incredibly unhappy and when he’s unhappy – well, let’s just say everyone around him gets dragged down for the show.”

“So, what am I supposed to do? Let you live?”

“Look … what is your name?”

“Mary, let’s say my name is Mary.”

“Mary, you’re a smart girl. You have to be. So, think: no matter what your bosses have planned, their scorched earth policy won’t work.” John slowly pulled out the rat carcass. “You see this?”

Mary blinked. “Bloody hell.”

“Yeah, we don’t have the entire thing. I’m sure the lab’s on fire and all that, and there won’t be evidence left upstairs, but there is evidence down here. Do you get it now?

“Do you honestly think the bastards who planned this have rigged this entire building to blow? Dr. Briggs is dead. People now know Dr. Moye didn’t commit suicide, and then we got Dr. Silva down a few blocks and do you know how she died?”

Mary shook her head. “That wasn’t my job, but I heard it was messy.”

“They tried to kill her by triggering an allergic reaction, but it wasn’t working fast enough. So, in the end, they crucified her to the floor.”

Mary’s blue eyes turned frosty. “Dumb bastards.”

“Yeah, and it’s only a matter time before the security tapes outside the Gallery tell the Met what they need to know.”

“And what do you want me to do?”

“Honestly? Tasering Sherlock? I’ve been fantasising about that for months, so good on you. What I want you to do is get the hell out of here. And stop associating with such idiots. It may be good for your bank account, but it’s bad for your health.”

“Maybe I should find myself a Sherlock?”

“Still bad for your health, but it’s a definite improvement.”

Mary tipped her head a little and said, “You’re a good man, Dr. Watson.”

“No, I’m an idiot, but I’m a loyal idiot. And I have a gun trained on you.”

“Honest too.” Mary sighed a little. “I really do wish we met under different circumstances.”

“Mary, just go.”

She slowly made her way down the hallway before whirling out of view. John rushed to Sherlock’s unconscious form and checked for vitals. He then pulled Sherlock onto a fireman’s carry on his good shoulder and slowly made his way down the closest stairwell.

* * *

Lestrade stared down at the disgusting rat carcass in his hands. “What am I supposed to do with this again?”

Donovan studied the huddled group as they were escorted out with a troop of constables and members of CO19. “I think it’s evidence. Or, at least, that’s what Sherlock thought.”

“I swear, if those idiots killed themselves over a fucking rat…”

Donovan raised her hand as she said, “Repeat that,” to her comm.

Lestrade tensed immediately and began silently praying for his missing friends.

“We’ve got to go, now,” Donovan said. “There’s a fire on both the eighteenth and the nineteenth floor. And it’s spreading fast.”

Before Lestrade could answer a pretty blonde woman came running up to them. Her face was a study of horror and confusion.

“You have to help them!” she cried out. “There were these awful men … and then this short bloke jumped in and saved me.”

“Where?” Lestrade asked.

“On the fourth floor, on that side,” the woman answered, her shaking finger pointing northeast. “There was another man but he was on the floor. Oh my God, I think they shot him!”

Donovan pulled a constable aside and ordered him to help evacuate the hysterical woman out of the building. Then, the two detectives rushed towards the northeast corner, found a stairwell, made their way up a single flight before hearing faltering steps.

“John? Is that you?” Lestrade shouted, not caring a damn for protocols.

“Thank God, help me!”

They ran up the stairs and found John leaning against the wall with Sherlock draped over him like a matador’s cape.

“Jesus, is he all right?” Lestrade asked.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s fine,” John answered, as Lestrade helped him get a grip of the unconscious detective. Then, without warning, he shoved his half of the rat carcass to Donovan. “Evidence.”

Donovan bravely held onto the manky thing even as her lips peeled back in disgust. 

The motley group made their way to the lobby where, not surprisingly, She-Who-Cannot-Be-Named was waiting with an entourage of medics behind her.

They wordlessly shuffled the unconscious detective onto a stretcher before rushing him out. 

Lestrade took one look at John’s pale and haggard appearance. “Go with them. Save the doctors some grief when Sherlock comes to. The last thing we need is to rescue you two again in a bloody hospital, because Sherlock got difficult.”

“Thank you, both,” John said. “That rat is evidence. Did you find Susan?”

Lestrade wordlessly pulled out his half of the rat and waved it. “Yeah, we did.”

“Good,” John said. “Guard those things with your life. The bastards here were playing God and were complete shites at it. People died, and more people were going to die.”

“Okay, Donovan will go with you to take statements. Dimmock, Tim, and half of CO19 went with Susan and her group. So, they’re safe.”

John mouthed a grateful “thank you” and docilely followed Donovan to another bus waiting for him.

Lestrade stared at the streaks of red and white running down John’s back, from nape to waist. For a moment he wondered if he should grab the man’s clothing as evidence.

Then he looked at the rat in his hands and remembered Dr. Silva’s body crucified to the floor of her office, her face one of terror; her tongue clawed and partially chewed.

The DI marched back into the building and took half of the Met’s officers with him. He had criminals to catch.


	4. War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s prior estimation of his tolerance for fear proved wrong as he could actually feel the temperature in his body drop.

Sherlock finished reading the summary Lestrade had sent him only minutes before. After being grilled by Met’s finest, two of the guards cracked and revealed the whereabouts of Dr. Brigg’s body. Dr. Moye’s corpse was exhumed and Molly’s attentive examination revealed strangulation and not suicide to be the cause of her death.

Both the CFO and CEO were supposed to be arrested, but had disappeared. Mr. Donaldson, the CFO, was spotted in Cyprus, though Sherlock doubted the veracity of that sighting. More likely, Neuman’s board and its parent company had dealt with the two privately, and their bodies would never be found.

All in all, the Met pulled in twelve suspects for the vast conspiracy to distribute and sell dangerous medication, along with falsifying records and research data. Add to that multiple murder charges, and Sherlock was certain Neuman wouldn’t survive to see the end of the year.

Sherlock thought the case to be a most satisfying one. There was mayhem, explosions, assassins, and intrigue involving a multi-national corporation. But the apex was the fact that John had finally revealed the side of himself which he had so assiduously hidden. 

John, on the other hand, had called the case a "clusterfuck of stupidity, greed, and idiocy." And he refused to change his opinion until Mycroft guaranteed neither he nor Sherlock would go to prison for their contribution to the so-called clusterfuck.

Sherlock wondered if he should take out John for dinner. Not at Angelo’s, but some place special and the ambiance a bit more genteel. 

_Not where Mycroft patronises, but John does seem to appreciate Indian cuisine. We’ll skip the usual ones. Hmm … Amaya should suffice._ Sherlock concluded. He studiously ignored the heat painting his cheeks as he recollected how romantic the restaurant had looked when he followed a suspect to a private dinner party.

He heard John making his way up the stairs and dashed over to the kitchen to study the slides he’d created earlier in the day. It wasn’t until John was hanging his coat that Sherlock heard the slight hitch in his friend’s gait. 

“Sherlock, we need to talk.”

Sherlock winced at John’s patient tone. Had he discovered the bacterial experiment that Sherlock had hidden in 221C? But then, why would that bother John? It’s not as if the smell would actually permeate…

Hmm, maybe it has?

“Sherlock, please. This is serious.”

Sherlock felt dread coil around his spine. _So, this is it, then. John is finally leaving. He had enough of me and my propensity to find death at every corner._

“Sherlock, I had blood work done, the usual stuff, last week. Some numbers came back that worried Sarah and myself.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up from the microscope. “What?” he demanded.

“I believe it’s cancer.”

Sherlock had never known such fear as he felt now. “What kind?”

“Lymphatic, we suspect, though we have to run more tests to confirm that.”

Sherlock’s prior estimation of his tolerance for fear proved wrong as he could actually feel the temperature in his body drop. 

_I’m going into shock_ , Sherlock concluded numbly. _John has cancer and I am the one in need of medical supervision._

John leaned over and placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Don’t run away to your Mind Palace, not now. I need you. Please, Sherlock?”

It was the plea at the end that galvanized the Detective.

“I have to call Mycroft,” he said harshly. “He’ll know what is the best recourse.”

“You really think he’ll help?” John asked.

Sherlock gaped at his friend. “My brother is only a step away from either giving you the Knighthood or adopting you so there would be no way you would ever get rid of us.

“He’ll help.”

John gave a wan smile. “I’ll start tea. We could both use a good cuppa.”

Sherlock waved his hand negligently as he went to his room. He had to take five deep breaths before he was fit to use his phone.

The moment the call connected, Sherlock raged, “How could you not tell me about this?” 

“Sherlock, I have no idea what has upset you so. Please endeavour to inform me of my latest failure without throwing a tantrum,” Mycroft answered, his voice laced with confusion and irritation.

“John has cancer!” Sherlock hissed. “He believes it’s lymphatic…”

“John doesn’t have cancer. He had a full workup done just last week. The numbers were well within normal parameters. His cholesterol level is a bit high, but then so is his HDL so…”

Sherlock blinked. “What do you mean? I am talking about that exact thing.”

“Let me pull up the data,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock heard some typing before Mycroft started speaking. “Yes, I am looking at it. Sherlock, there is nothing here to indicate cancer. Was there another panel done?”

“No,” Sherlock answered, now confused. “I don’t understand. Your people wouldn’t have missed something so obvious as this.”

“Sherlock, I’m getting Miriam to look at the NHS database,” Mycroft said, his voice tight with worry. “I think I know what has happened.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock whispered. 

“Let me call you back, and I promise I will, soon.”

“All right.” Sherlock ended the call and collapsed onto his bed. His hands were trembling so badly that he had to deposit the phone on the bedside table. 

Not two minutes later, Mycroft called.

“It was hacked,” he angrily stated. “Dr. Watson’s results were drastically altered. However, just to make sure the odious creature hasn’t done anything worse, I will send a car to pick up both of you. There is a private clinic that could do another workup within the premises. And they are capable of ensuring complete privacy.”

“Thank you.”

Sherlock toddled out to the main room to face John making tea with the usual economic movements he’d shown under all weather.

 _Ever the soldier, my John_ , Sherlock thought as his eyes burned.

He cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “Mycroft is sending a car for us.”

“One of these days we’re going to have to do a case for him,” John said with a small smile. “I guess I can’t refuse…”

“No, John, you don’t understand,” Sherlock said. “We’re not sure if you have cancer.”

John looked puzzled. “What are you going on about? The blood work…”

“Moriarty hacked into your data,” Sherlock said.

The mug in John’s hand smashed on the floor as he swayed dangerously. Sherlock rushed to help his friend and had to handle him into a chair.

“Oh God,” John whispered, breathing heavily as he placed his head between his knees. “Oh God…”

“But we have to make sure you are in the clear. So we’re going to get another workup done in a place Moriarty can’t reach.”

John’s reply was a harsh sound that could have been interpreted as a sob or a choked laugh. The two men got dressed slowly, with Sherlock hovering over John. 

Thanks to Mycroft’s vigilance, the moment they stepped outside 221 a black car pulled up to the curve. But it wasn’t until Mycroft’s unnamed assistant stepped out did they actually get in the sleek Jaguar. 

The drive was convoluted but not so long as to bore Sherlock. Not that he could be bored right then. He was too busy entertaining thoughts of killing Moriarty to consider his time to be wasted.

The clinic was masquerading as a private block of upscale flats. Sherlock suspected that part of it was actually being rented as such. So, it took him several moments to note the anomalies in the architecture as Miriam led them through four different doors and into an elevator that led them to a sub-basement floor.

“What is this place?” John asked, studying the hallway’s ancient floors and lighting.

“An abandoned bunker, I believe,” Sherlock answered.

“World War Two?”

“No, The Great War.” Sherlock pointed to a crumbling movie poster still glued to the wall. “I am not familiar with the actress but the style is reminiscent of the era.”

“This place is huge,” John said. “It must take up the entire block.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

Miriam punched in a code and stood still for a moment. Sherlock looked up and saw scanners and realized that the security included biometric readings. He suspected blood pressure and oxygen saturation readings were standard.

The door opened to an incongruous workspace. The walls were black and white tiles, while the floor was what looked like a metal alloy. The overhead lighting was bright but not glaring, giving the place the feeling of a professional kitchen instead of medical lab.

A man whose hair resembled a wind-torn swallow’s nest came limping towards them. “Hello, I presume you’re Doctor Watson?”

John nodded. “Hello, and thank you for doing this.”

“Oh, nonsense,” the man answered. “I read your blog religiously. Makes my day when there’s a new entry. I know introductions are a formality, but as you can imagine we can’t do that here.

“So, why don’t we start?”

John was led to a screened corner where he’d strip down and wore the usual hospital gown. Then, he was led through a gauntlet of tests including MRI and CT Scan, along with few others he wasn’t completely familiar with, and suspected the majority of the medical community to be on the same boat.

Sherlock took a chair but his gaze never left John as he tracked his friend throughout the room. Blood was drawn, and not just one vial but what looked to be about five. Enough that even John looked woozy afterwards. He was given the perfunctory orange juice before rushed to another scanner while the vials containing his blood were handed over to various techs.

Sherlock looked around but didn’t see an operating theatre. Of course, that just meant it was located elsewhere, probably staffed with the best who could keep their mouths shut.

A solid hour passed before John was dressed in his clothes once more and deposited next to Sherlock.

The man who greeted them returned half hour later.

“I am glad to say you are cancer free, Dr. Watson,” he said with genuine happiness. “Not every day I get to be the bearer of good news!”

John buried his face in his hands and began trembling. “Thank you,” he managed to croak out. 

“Not a problem,” the doctor said kindly. “I believe you want to talk with your colleagues.”

With that he opened the door closest to them to reveal Mycroft with Miriam.

Sherlock stood up and said, “You were right. John’s health is not compromised.”

“At least not with cancer,” Mycroft said drolly. 

Miriam handed over a legal-sized manila envelope. “The information before and after it was altered.”

John finally looked up, his eyes glassy with shock. “Does anyone mind if I confess I want to shoot the bastard myself?”

Sherlock sat back down and placed a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. John grasped it firmly, though his entire body was still shaking.

“I fear this was Moriarty’s idea of a joke,” Mycroft said. “I personally find it childish and asinine.”

“How long would he have let this go on, I wonder,” John whispered as he read the printout. “Would he have kept altering the records? Make me go through chemotherapy? Radiation? Surgery? 

“Just for a laugh?”

Sherlock couldn’t answer and neither could Mycroft. 

_I will kill him_ , Sherlock’s silent vow branded itself across his mind and the main lintel to his Mind Palace. _I will burn down his world and make him eat the ashes._

Sherlock didn’t have to look at Mycroft to know his brother could hear his silent promise. And he didn’t say anything to John who had only days earlier helped him escape what should have been certain death. A man who was much more than a soldier or a doctor: a man whose hope and unshakable will had kept both of them alive.

For such a man, Sherlock was willing to do anything. For such a man, Sherlock was willing to turn his beloved London into a battleground.

 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are wondering, the 'Rat from Sumatra' was a very interesting throwaway that ACD mentioned in _The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire_. The single line was:
> 
> 'It was a ship which is associated with the giant rat of Sumatra, a story for which the world is not yet prepared.'
> 
> The world might still not be prepared, but I am ready to write about it!
> 
> I am trying (but not quite succeeding) in blending season 2 with my stories. And yes, this Mary is Mary in S3. I like her character, and think her fascinating. I also think she'd be more fascinating not as a love interest but as a wild card that neither Moriarty nor the Holmes brothers can control. And yeah, she's sweet on John, but can we really blame her for that?
> 
> Also, a big 'thank you folks' for coming this far along the series. I have such a hectic schedule that it is impossible for me to respond to comments. So, it's neither arrogance nor careless that I'm very quiet.
> 
> What I usually do is create a soundtrack at the end as a sort of thank-you, which I will definitely do for _Road to Ithaka_!


End file.
